WRITING GALLERY - MARCH 2026
WRITING GALLERY - MARCH 2026
Embedded Files
OUR MOMENT IN TIME
by Trevor
OUR MOMENT IN TIME
by Trevor
Where were you when: JFK was assassinated? The twin towers fell? Princess Diana died? You celebrated your twentieth wedding anniversary? …
27 December, 2017, we were at Siem Reap, Cambodia. Our taxi took us to what proved to be the highlight of our Thailand, Vietnam and Cambodian holiday – Angkor Wat. Regarded as the world’s largest religious monument, we had never heard of it.
They say a picture is worth a thousand words. What we saw and experienced increased that number, exponentially.
Built in the 12th century, by King Suryavarman II, Angkor Wat is a testament to the architects, artists, and craftsmen of the ancient Khmer empire. The whole thousand structures covering 400 acres of manicured landscape, makes one magnificent history lesson composed of carvings, towers, sculptures, scriptures, art … whatever genre that was available, nine centuries ago.
In its day, everything would have oozed perfection. There would have been no cutting of corners. The whole project must have cost many arms and many legs.
My bung knees precluded me from negotiating the steps to go above level one, and even getting there, wasn’t a piece of cake. Once I had found a comfortable slab of sandstone to sit on, my wife, Helen, set off with our guide, Rom, on a tour of levels two and three.
I didn’t get to see the hundreds of “story walls” that Rom interpreted for her, nor the plethora of famous artifacts. Instead, I was able to eavesdrop on the constant stream of tourist groups, accompanied by informative guides, local and international. It was interesting to hear the different interpretations of the art and hieroglyphics, on the sandstone walls, around where I was perched.
Not all guides had the skills, nor knowledge, to go the extra mile, in answering some of the questions being asked. But, to me, they were all educational, even if some of them needed to get their acts together.
On the way back to Siem Reap, Rom took us to ruins, where international restorations were happening. We were fascinated by the sculptures of warriors fighting lions, on the pillars at Angkor Thom; the sculptured elephants on the roadside walls; Ta Prohm, where the temples have been eroded by strangler figs and silk trees; and a tiny toddler, sitting in a cardboard box, while his mother raked up leaves, along the paved, entrance driveway.
It was a big eight hour day which provided an overwhelming volume of memories. Seeing is believing, and we left believing that nothing we had seen in other parts of the word, would compare with Angkor Wat. You can’t compare apples with oranges.
Our day concluded with fine dining on my Aussie tenderloin steak and Helen’s rack of lamb, a splash of wine, and being serenaded by a topnotch singer who, on finding out it was our special day, sang a bracket of numbers, including Bette Middler’s “The Rose”, and Simon and Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Waters.”
We both felt like a million bucks.
DEATH OF A TOWN
by Sallie
DEATH OF A TOWN
by Sallie
Empty shops, windows displaying a variety of dead flies. Empty streets
It hadn’t always been like this. Once it was a thriving little town, awakening as the tourist seasons brought droves of visitors to the area for the bushwalking and water sports the area had to offer.
It was the fires that started the downfall. That hot November when bushfires raged over much of the state. Motel bookings and camp sites were cancelled. There wouldn’t be any of the bush walks for which the town was famous. Who would want to walk on the blackened ground? Fishing would be out of the question as would water skiing. The lakes and creeks would be far too polluted.
The businesses hung on, hoping that although the summer season was not going to eventuate, maybe by Easter things would start to pick up. It wouldn’t be the best year but they would survive.
So the summer passed slowly. The blackened trees started to sprout new shoots which twisted like ivy up the trunks and along the blackened branches. The bush slowly started to grow, birds and animals began to return. The townspeople were full of optimism.
The shops began to order in the goods that they needed for a busy Easter. The gift shop contacted all its local suppliers, the lady who made glass dishes, vases and paperweights, swirled with amazing colours, each one individual. The lady who spun raw fleeces and hand knitted beautifully patterned jumpers. The man who made wind chimes out of old forks and metal sculptures from oddments he found. So many very crafty people all relying on the tourist trade for their survival.
The gallery rang the local artists and ordered the highly prized watercolours of native birds, the abstracts and the oil paintings of local scenes. Business would boom.
The bakery ordered supplies of flour and icing sugar, and the cafes stocked up on a variety of teas and coffees. Restaurants ordered in the ingredients needed to create tasty dishes. Motels and the caravan park took bookings. The local hotel ordered beer, wine and of course, food. Full of hope the townsfolk readied their town for an influx of visitors.
Then the unthinkable happened. Just before Easter the pandemic reared its ugly head, the government declared a state of emergency and locked the state down for four months so once again the town was without its lifeblood.
The businesses could not survive this. The gift shop had to cancel the orders it had placed, which meant that the craftspeople had no outlet for their lovingly created wares. Artists had nowhere to sell their paintings. Without trade the shopkeepers would have no money to pay their electricity bills, rates, insurance. No money for food.
Supplies ordered by restaurants, cafes and bakeries languished in storerooms and went off but they still had to be paid for.
The hotel, motels and the caravan park had to put off all the casual workers who relied on the holiday jobs to assist the family income.
The only surviving business was the hotel because when the chips are down, somehow there is always money for alcohol.
FUTURE EXPECTATIONS
by Valda
FUTURE EXPECTATIONS
by Valda
The small Swedish trading ship lay at anchor in the upper
reaches of Sydney Harbour, ready to sail on the high tide at
dusk. Sven, the Swedish Captain, was in the wheelhouse
studying the latest weather reports and the list of seemingly
disparate passengers. This would be his last trip in the South
Pacific as he was being promoted to a vessel servicing oil rigs
in the North Atlantic.
While scanning the list he glanced down, as a van with a cross
emblazoned on the side pulled up, and a large middle-aged
woman began ordering his Pilipino crew to lift boxes from the
vehicle. He was about to go back to his cabin and leave his
Officers to deal with the passengers’ mandatory safety briefing,
when a young girl stepped from the van. The wind caught her
blond ringlets and as she glanced up, he caught her eye and
she smiled. Instead, he now changed into his whites to join the
group.
Veronica and Arthur Phillips-Verco, Burns Philp Planters,
stumbled out of their taxi, she kicking off her stilettoes before
staggering up the gangway, while he, dressed in a crumpled
safari suit and carrying a pith helmet appeared to have trouble
keeping his balance.
Two young men, recent graduates from ASOPA training
College, to teach in remote village schools, eagerly boarded.
For Church elder Margaret, this trip was a nightmare. Before
they sailed out of the Heads she was in her berth, violently ill.
Travelling by sea was a necessity due to the amount of biblical
material being transported. She worried about training Isabel,
her young associate, to carry out their proselytizing in the
villages to change their heathen lifestyles. The unnecessary
sing sings where the young girls and boys danced naked into
an all-night frenzy, both excited and disgusted her.
Isabel was thrilled to be away from her father’s strict control
and with Margaret unable to leave her bunk, was enjoying her
freedom, and was overawed by the attention of the good-
looking Swedish Captain sitting beside her at meal times.
Veronica observed with veiled eyes, the seduction of this pretty
young golden haired and presumably virgin beauty, and could
see this not ending well.
Isabel was totally captivated and when asked back to his cabin
after dinner each evening, she happily followed. She was in
love, and when he laid her on the bed and undressed her, she
was filled with desire and readily accepted his love making.
The ship berthed at Rabaul late at night, where the smell of
sulphur from Matupi volcano permeated the heavy air. Local
shore workers unloaded and readied her for an early morning
departure with the passengers needing to disembark with
urgency, due to the ebbing tide. Isabel was frantic, having no
time to find Sven.
Four years later a thin young women trudged tiredly
towards the Church in a Mission village in the Warangoi
Valley, deep in the hills of New Britain Island, when a small
blond headed boy playing in the dirt with a group of local
children, called out, ‘Mummy.’
Our writing task for March 26 was quite open ... 'write anything you want, or include an idiom or three in your story.'
Our word limit is always 'around 500 words.'
AUSSIE SNAGS
by Paul
AUSSIE SNAGS
by Paul
“Oh, Miguel you’re such a S.N.A.G. First you give great hair advice and now compliments.” The woman puckered an air kiss his way.
“Sorry, what is this ‘S.N.A.G.S’?” Miguel asked.
“A Sensitive New Age Guy, of course. Come. Let me introduce you to one who isn’t. My ‘wors-er’ half.’
She steered him through the crush of people. “Jerry, this is Miguel. He’s from Spain. We should have him over for a barbie.”
Jerry shook hands. “Anytime. I can always throw a few snags on the grill.”
“S.N.A.G.S?’ Miguel said with alarm. “You cook S.N.A.G.S?”
"Oh, I know what you’re thinkin’, full of fat. But once you spike them with a fork,” he poked Miguel’s belly, “they’re fine.”
Miguel forced a grin and stepped away; right into the path of a woman, spilling her wine.
“Excusa,” Miguel said, dabbing at her blouse with his handkerchief and catching his signet ring in her silk scarf.
“Oh, no, it’s snagged. Blast. This’s–was– my best scarf,”
“You S.N.A.G. too?” he asked.
“Me? No, you snagged it.”
He unhooked himself, handed her his handkerchief and looked around for a friendly face, spotting Tom outside. He weaved his way through the throng.
“Miguel! There you are, mate. I was just saying you could snag yourself a few birds here tonight.”
“Birds?” Miguel repeated, “No, I…”
Tom laughed and clapped Miguel on the back.
“You know. Senoritas.”
“Ah, si, si.” Miguel lifted his glass. Everyone laughed.
A red-faced man leant forward. “So, Tom, how’s the new project going?’’
"Ah, not so good, mate. We’ve run into a few snags.”
“S.N.A.G.S?” Miguel said.
“Yeah. But nothing I can’t fix with a good pour.”
“Bury them in concrete? Like last time?” the other man added knowingly.
“Deep as.” Tom said. “Expensive, but no use crying over spilt milk. We just have to pull our finger out and knuckle down.”
“In the cement?” Miguel said, trying to visualise it all before giving up. “Tom. I must go.”
“You’re not nicking off now, mate. It’s your shout. The open bar ran out three rounds ago.”
“Shout? What should I…?”
The men all laughed before the red-faced man said, “What-cha doing on Sunday Mig…er, Mick? I thought we could throw a line in.”
“Not off that bloody pier again?” Tom scoffed. “The snags there outnumber the fish three to one. I remember once…”
“Ah, everyone duck here comes the bullshit shower.”
Only Miguel looked up. Blushing, he decided it was definitely time to leave. Covertly he ordered an uber.
“So, Mick? Sunday? I might even bring a tinnie.”
“One? Will be enough?”
Tom and the red-faced man exchanged looks.
“We only need one, mate. There’s just the three of us.”
He held up his can of Fosters, “Between three?”
Tom’s brow crinkled, until he worked it out.
“No, not that sort of tinnie, mate. A boat.”
“Ah, I see,” Miguel nodded, not seeing at all.
His phone buzzed, “Excusa, my uber, she is… " his face brightened, “snagged.”
THE MEETING
by Melinda
THE MEETING
by Melinda
Amber pulls a pair of pristine black flares from her wardrobe and places them on her neat bed; a beige top and a beige jacket follow. After drying and styling her freshly washed, long, dark hair, she pulls on her clothes checking herself in the mirror. She decides to add a scarf for a pop of pale pink.
Across town Bradley tucks in his black, textured shirt, adjusts his belt and reaches for his black tie. Next, he sits on the comfortable, leather armchair in his immaculate bedroom and does up the laces of his perfectly polished black shoes.
As she gently strokes crimson-red lipstick across her lips, Amber thinks of the day ahead. Kitten heels comfortably on and handbag on her arm, she makes sure that she has all the documents she needs, checks the mirror again and is out the door.
Bradley checks himself in the mirror and then unfurls his thin leather roll - removing and painstakingly polishing each silver item before placing it back in the roll. A further check in the mirror, his eyes glinting with approval, and he too is out the door.
Amber hurries to the station to catch the 10:12 that will take her from Windsor to the end of the line in Ferny Grove. On the train she mentally rehearses her answers to the questions she anticipates. Then, on her short walk from the station to the Village coffee shop she clears her mind and calms herself.
Bradley parks his silver Lexus hybrid a few blocks from the coffee shop and walks back. He takes a seat with his back to the wall, looks around and then peruses the menu - confident that this will be a great day.
Just minutes later Amber walks in, spots the black tie, and walks up proffering her hand. Bradley stands, shakes her hand and greets her warmly. They smile at each other, both pleased with what they see.
“I’m going to have a long black, what can I get you?” Bradley asks. Small talk ensues while they wait for their coffee.
He comments, “Are you near the station in Windsor? That would give you an easy commute.”
“Yes,” Amber responds. “If I get the job, it’ll be perfect.”
When a long black and a cappuccino arrive, talk turns to business. “I finished my degree in marketing two years ago and I’ve been freelancing ever since.” As Bradley looks through her portfolio, Amber continues, “I’ve mostly enjoyed refining the brief and then strategizing to ensure that I meet it. I love working with art and breaking it down; perhaps seeing it as a form of semaphore – looking for a simple way to communicate a key message. I like a limited palette that represents the product in a way that builds customer engagement. Oh, and I love seeing positive Facebook and Instagram stats. That gives me a bit of a thrill too.”
“Tell me the story behind this one,” Bradley asks, showing great interest in a portfolio item.
After discussing remuneration, work hours and flexibility, Bradley comes to a decision. “Amber, I’d like to offer you the job. You’ll be perfect. Come, I’ll show you the office space. It’s a work in progress. Furniture is arriving on Thursday and two other staff members will be onboarding with you on Monday next week.”
As they enter the office, several floors above street level, Amber looks around at the vast, empty space and then out to the magnificent views of the Samford valley. “It’s lovely,” she declares as the door snaps shut behind them. Putting her bag down she asks about staff numbers and office furniture arrangements. Bradley puts his bag down too, the leather of his knife-roll just visible; tape and rope well-hidden.
This is not going to be the day that Amber anticipated. In fact, it will be her last.
Soon a blade is glinting at her throat. Bradley’s eyes are gleaming with excitement.
Google Sites
Report abuse